


Biohazard

by phocion



Category: Breaking Bad
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-11
Updated: 2013-10-11
Packaged: 2017-12-29 02:12:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/999649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phocion/pseuds/phocion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jesse's not coming in today.</p><p>Prompt: Sometime during early season 5 prior to Dead Freight, Jesse gets sick with the flu or something, and gives Mike the heads up that he won't be coming in that day. Walt's ready to get cooking but finds out that Jesse's sick and gets pissed the Jesse told Mike and not him. Cue Mike and Walt trying to one up each other in the chicken noodle soup/ parent by sick child's bedside department.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Biohazard

\----

"Jesse's not coming in today," Mike said as he brushed past the arriving Walter White, ridiculous black hat, tan jacket, and brown paper bag lunch in his hands. 

Walt stopped in his tracks, turning around with his mouth slightly open. "Excuse me?"

Mike stopped in his tracks, turning around with his mouth slightly open. "Yes?"

"Why isn't Jesse coming in today?"

Mike gave him the Look. The look that said 'I hate you you stupid fucking piece of shit'. The look that said 'are we seriously going to say more than two words to each other because I'd much rather break your nose.' The look that said 'Jesse's with me today.' "Said he's feeling under the weather."

"We have to cook."

Mike shrugged. "Don't know what to tell you, Walter," he said in that deceptively casual singsong voice he got whenever he was thisclose to losing it. 

"You can start with 'what's wrong with Jesse.'"

"I told you. He's sick."

"How is he sick?"

Mike scoffed, his 'I can't believe this scumbag' scoff. "I don't know, Walter. Probably germs. Either way, it's just you today. I'm sure you'll be fine."

"How is it just- where are you going?" Walt interrupted himself, following Mike angrily as he turned away mid-conversation. Rude.

"I got business."

"What business?"

"My business."

"Mike."

"Goodbye Walter." And Mike left, closing the Vamanos garage door behind him and leaving Walt with that same stupefied look on his face.

\----

Walt had been doing some thinking as he sat in the back office, staring at that damn poster of those damn pests. Why would Jesse tell Mike, and not him? Mike hardly figured into their cooking schedule. They saw him before, and they saw him after. That was it. If Jesse was going to tell anyone it should have been Walt. But it hadn't.

Why hadn't it been him?

He had some theories, some a higher probability than others.

The least likely theory, was that Jesse thought Mike knowing was more important than Walt knowing. This was clearly ridiculous. Aside from all of the aforementioned reasons, it stood as fact that Walt knew Jesse better than Mike. They had a stronger relationship. They'd been through hell and back, time and again. And they always came out on top. Together. 

Which was his other theory: that Jesse somehow thought it might make him look weak. This less probable, as Walt had seen Jesse at literal rock bottom. And though Walt didn't care to admit it, Jesse had seen him flirt with rock bottom, too. A few times. On both sides. 

The prevailing was that Jesse didn't want to let him down. Made sense. They'd done that whole disappointment routine since high school, really. And Jesse had finally learned to live up to expectations, and he was. Exceeding them, even. Walt's best student.

He had to smile, sitting on that ratty couch, tapping his knees idly as his mind whirled. Of course that was why. Jesse looked up to him. Somehow, he'd got it into that head of his that Walt would be disappointed that Jesse had to call off. Walt was nothing if not benevolent, of course. He cared. He wouldn't begrudge Jesse a sick day. It must be serious, with him calling off. He'd shown up to cook in various states of ill health in the past.

Why hadn't it been him?

He should go check on him. Make sure he's alright.

\----

He should've expected something like this when Mike called instead of just texting him back that morning.

"Excuse me?"

Jesse had blinked blearily at the phone. Hardly remembered answering it and for one fraction of a second he'd honestly believed Mike had invented voice texting. Which didn't really make sense. Because that was a phone call. "I.. Mike, you called me."

"What the hell was that text message?"

"My...head hurts..?" Honestly, he didn't know where Mike was going with this. He'd woke up this morning feeling like a ten-ton fog had landed on his entire body. A shower hadn't cleared it up and his temperature came in at higher than normal (which Jesse knew because of the extremely scientific way of pressing his hands against his face), but he'd felt decent enough to lumber downstairs and grab some cereal. It was only when he then threw up said cereal that he realized he might not be feeling so hot. And really, it wasn't until he'd donned about five extra layers of clothes because he was freezing and then promptly stripped them all off down to his boxers because he was burning that he realized he might be sick. 

So he'd texted him. In hindsight, bad fucking idea.

" Why?"

"I dunno," he shrugged. "Maybe I ate bad tacos."

"Did you?"

"No.."

"So your head hurts and you want me to give you a ride."

"Yes."

"Stay home, kid."

"Jesus, Mike, it's just a headache. I just didn't want to drive. I'm being responsible, see?"

"You sound like shit."

"Thanks. Asshole."

"Don't get cute, kid. Stay home, I'll tell Walter."

"Mike - "

"Your head's not the only thing that hurts, is it?"

"......"

"Jesse."

"No...."

"Go back to bed."

Click.

Jesse shut the phone, cocooned as he was in a blanket and wearing little else, burrowed into the disc chair in his living room and not wanting, or being able to, get back up to head upstairs. And even if he wanted to protest, he knew Mike was right.

One thing was for goddamn sure. If Mr. White thought a fly was a contaminant he'd think Jesse was a freaking biohazard.

\----

By the time Mike opened the door, Jesse had dressed himself back into his baggy as hell sweatpants and a big ass shirt but hadn't managed to get up the stairs. And he was still cocooned in the blankets on the disc chair.

"Your door's unlocked."

Jesse looked up at him blearily. Eyes red, but in the good (relatively speaking), sick sorta way, not the bad, strung out sorta way. 

"Yeah," Jesse croaked.

"Don't suppose telling you how dumb that is would really matter right now," Mike sighed, shutting the door behind him. "You look like shit, too."

Jesse gave him a petulant smile, which could've been a 'fuck you' if he didn't look so miserable. Face pale and peaky, focus bad, and he was obviously trembling, even under the blankets. Trembling and sweating. The flu, just as he'd figured. Kaylee'd had it recently. Something going around right now. All the kids were getting it, apparently. And this kid was no different.

"Didn't I tell you to get back in bed?"

"Yeah."

"And why didn't you?"

Jesse shrugged. Or the blanket shrugged, and Mike assumed Jesse controlled it. 

Mike heaved a long suffering sigh, his eyes traveling briefly to the heavens. "You wanna get in your bed, kid?"

The blanket shrugged again, this time even more pathetic.

"You need help getting there?"

Jesse nodded.

"Alright," he resolved, placing the bag of assorted soups, juice, and crackers onto the floor next to him.

And then the door smacked him hard in the back.

\----

Walt had taken Mike's advice. He never did anything in half measures anymore. Which included making an entrance. He'd been prepared to bust through the lock, take Jesse under his wing, nurse him back to health, the whole nine yards. He managed to enthusiastically open Jesse's unlocked door and cause a litany of grumbled curses from Mike.

"What are you doing here?" Walt squinted at him. He had two bags of groceries in his hands, the result of a quick trip to Albertson's and a good twenty dollars in assorted cold medicines (generic, of course, but the most effective).

Mike turned and gave Walt the dead-eyed mackerel glare. Walt's eyes traveled to the one bag of groceries at Mike's feet and gave him a smug, pointed look. Mike's gaze didn't wander.

"You planning on moving so I can get in?" Walt asked, shuffling past Mike anyway with a triumphant look in his eyes. He turned, expecting Jesse to be upstairs, and found the bundle of blankets on the disc chair, watching with wide, somewhat glazed blue eyes at the exchange. 

"Hello, Jesse," Walt said pleasantly.

"Hey, Mr. White," Jesse said miserably. He didn't sound like he had a cold, which negated half of the medicines in the bag. 

"How are you feeling? I understand you're sick."

Mike snorted.

Jesse looked between them. "Sorry about - "

"No, no," Walt said benevolently, crossing over to him and placing the bags on the floor. He leaned down and put a firm hand on what he assumed was Jesse's shoulder under the blankets. "Don't be sorry. What's important is that we get you back on your feet, okay?"

"Okay."

"No point in doing a cook when my partner's out of commission, right?"

"Right."

"Good," Walt nodded, straightening. Ever conscious of Mike's presence behind him but refusing to acknowledge him. Mostly because he hadn't decided the next best thing to say to irk the older man. "Now, I think you should get into bed."

"Mike was just - "

\----

Edging Walter out of the way and manhandling a pliant Jesse to his feet. Walt rose, his eyelid twitching, as Mike took most of Jesse's weight under his arms (just like after Jane), guiding him to the landing. Ignoring Walt's presence.

"You good, kid?" he asked, in the gruff softness only he could manage. Ignoring Walt. Who was hovering uselessly behind him.

Jesse made a noise, which could have been a 'yes', 'no', or 'kill me now.' Mike took it as it really was, which was just a hurting kid who needed to sleep. 

"Maybe taking him up the stairs isn't so great an idea," Walt snapped peevishly. Mike ignored him. "It's clearly the flu," Walt barreled on regardless. "And any undue stress will only tax him needlessly. Now, there is a perfectly functional sofa right here - "

"S'a futon," Jesse mumbled helpfully.

"Right. There is a perfectly functional futon sofa right here, with easy access to the bathroom and the kitchen." Mike turned, still with Jesse cradled against him, to properly glower at Walt. Because it made sense. And Walt knew it, because he had that victorious look on his face as he continued. "So I vote that Jesse stay down here on the futon, where we can best keep an eye on him." We meaning him, of course. "And you can watch some TV," he added to Jesse, as if he'd invented television himself and graciously bestowed it on the suffering youth of the world.

"He has a television in his bedroom," Mike growled and yes, he knew it was petty, but he was already maneuvering Jesse to the futon and he was annoyed. He laid him down - or at least began to, because now Walt was edging Mike out of the way, getting Jesse by the shoulders and easing him to lie down. 

"We'll need some pillows, and more blankets," Walt added, throwing Mike a smile that made him want to hold his head into a bowl of hydrofluoric acid. 

But Jesse gave a little groan as he stretched out. And for the kid, Mike went to get the goddamn pillows.

\----

The problem was that lying down didn't really feel any better. His skin felt like knives where his shirt touched it, where the blanket touched him, and when he laid down it was just a giant bit of discomfort. And his teeth were chattering. 

"You have to let go," Walt chided, and it took Jesse a long time to realize what. Gale? Jane? Fucking, everything, really? "The blanket," Walt explained, and only then did Jesse realize he'd been clutching it so tightly that his fingers were stiff when he did finally let go. 

"Sorry," he said.

"It's okay," Walt said again, and this time he sounded a bit more sincere. No posturing with Mike out of the room, no grandstanding. Just Walt and Jesse (as it was meant to be) (as it should never be). Walt removed the blankets, and the assault of cold air on his icy, burning, damp skin made Jesse hiss pathetically into the futon cushion. 

"You'll be alright," said Mr. White, and Jesse believed him.

\----

Jesse was in and out at best. Lucid, but exhausted, focused more on his sickness than on any particular going on. So Walt rearranged the blankets over top him, spreading the warmth out so Jesse would loosen the tight ball he'd curled into at the exposure. His hand lingered on Jesse's bony shoulder, feeling the faint tremor of flu. Gave him an almost gentle shake, just a reminder. I'm here. I'm taking care of you. 

And then Mike huffed down the stairs with two pillows and a blanket thrown over his shoulder, crossing behind Walt and decidedly not allowing him to take the pillows himself. Instead, Mike gave them to Walt. Without a word. And went to the one grocery bag he'd brought, and left for the kitchen. 

Walt could feel that he was losing ground somehow. Mike was up to something. Tucking Jesse in would have been the coup de grace, in Walt's mind. And Mike had just given it up. 

\----

Mike had given up the 'coup de grace' for homemade chicken broth. An Ehrmantraut family recipe, this. Passed down from his mother, taught by him to his own kid. Jesse had a functional kitchen, so Mike got to work getting it ready. Let Walt plume his feathers. Mike had one thing in mind right now, and that was getting the kid on the mend. And having a dick measuring contest with Walter fucking White was not going to get that done any faster. So he put a pot of water on the stove, got to work setting out the tomatoes, the carrots, the chicken, the seasoning. Stock from scratch, only way to do it. Methodical, in a sense, but not scientific. Instinct.

"Need any help?" Walt stood in the doorway to the kitchen, eyeing the whole setup critically.

"Nope."

"You sure?" Walt pressed, trying for lightness. "I'm good at cooking."

Mike paused for all of five seconds just to let Walt bask in how horrible his own attempt at humor was. And then went back to slicing carrots. 

\----

Walt fussed over the blankets, the pillows, the clothes. Making sure Jesse wasn't boxed in, Because that was his domain in this. Mike's was the kitchen, and as each minute ticked by the house smelled better and better. "Don't know how helpful it is, to be honest," Walt muttered conspiratorially to an increasingly not lucid Jesse at the beginning of the cooking process, sitting on the futon with him, glaring daggers in the direction of the kitchen. "This is going to take a while, I assume." 

Jesse mumbled something incoherent.

"And you need food now. Get your strength up." Walt patted him heartily on the shoulder, like he'd done a million times before. The 'buck up, son' pat. The 'that's my boy' pat. Right now, Jesse didn't seem to like it. "Here," Walt said, changing strategies. He got up, grabbing the two bags he'd brought and rifling through them. "How about some ibuprofen, huh?" he grinned, waving the bottle at Jesse, who looked nauseous. Walt's grin faltered. Not ibuprofen then. 

He fussed with the blankets.

\----

It took two hours for the soup to be finished. In that time, Mike had stood stone still at the head of the living room, glaring at Walt and checking on Jesse, going back to occasionally stir the pot. Jesse'd thrown up twice, once in one of Walter's grocery bags, which gave Mike immense satisfaction. Since then, the kid had checked out, and he lay there curled up and snoring, dead to the world. 

Which left Mike and Walt. As it was never meant to be. Glaring.

The soup finished, the buzzer went off. Mike strained it, got it into a bowl, and walked back to face the music. 

"He's sleeping," Walt insisted, still perched like a gargoyle on the futon, almost shielding Jesse's face from Mike's eyes. 

"He needs to eat," Mike countered. "Which means one of us has to wake him up. Now that can be you, or that can be me. But this bowl is getting hot. So make up your mind. You wanna be the bad guy? Or should I?"

Silence.

Silence.

Walt turned, put his hands on Jesse's shoulders, ran his hands down Jesse's back, leaned in and said in a soft voice, the snake to the mouse, "Jesse. Jesse wake up."

"Mmf."

"Jesse, you need to eat. Wake up."

"Mr. White.."

"We have soup for you, but you have to wake up."

"Don' wanna."

"Get up, kid," Mike said finally, in that gruff softness only he could manage. 

Jesse stirred a bit, a violent tremor running through him as he did. "M'cold," he whimpered into the pillow.

"That's why we have soup," Walt explained gently. "Come on." And he didn't wait for Jesse to get up. Simply gripped him tighter, sunk his claws in deeper, and turned him onto his back. "Jesse," Walt said, his hand resting on Jesse's face, light grip on his jaw, his cheek, his soul. Reasserting himself. Jesse's eyes fluttered open, blue and glazed and lost. And Mike watched them look at each other, watched the shorthand pass between them, something unspoken.

"Oh, Jesse," Mike sighed, and it could have been, might have been, inaudible. Didn't matter, because neither heard.

\----

At least, Jesse didn't hear, as Walt sat him up and Mike brought the soup over.

But Walt was smiling.

**Author's Note:**

> Couldn't find a way to work in Todd. Just imagine him creeping through the windows.


End file.
